


Dorian Gray and the Portrait of Sin

by Icarusflies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 19:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13441809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icarusflies/pseuds/Icarusflies
Summary: Dorian Gray goes to Hogwarts, where he has his portrait painted by Basil Hallward. However like all art at Hogwarts, the portrait is alive, and it bears his sins...





	Dorian Gray and the Portrait of Sin

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to theportraitofdorianbae.tumblr.com, heckblazerr.tumblr.com, sanderinautumn.tumblr.com, and smaller-divinities.tumblr.com who helped immensely in the creation of this story

It was built of dreams and worn stone, lit by eternal candle light and positively electric with magic. To walk its halls was to breathe in the raw power of creation and even through the boisterous calling of students and the clatter of footsteps, there was a silence that spoke of worlds left behind, and worlds to come. This was Hogwarts, the legendary wizarding school.  
At Hogwarts was a young man named Dorian Gray, grandson of the legendary Lord Kelso. He was a third year now, Slytherin.   
He had cried long and hard when he was put into Slytherin. When the hat rested on his head, it’s soft, worn brim touching his forehead, it had spoken to him. It said, “Dorian Gray. Your heart cries out for Hufflepuff, you seek devotion, to self and others, you pledge loyalty to those close to your heart.”  
Dorian nodded imperceptibly.  
“But. There is a kernel in your soul, an edge that will cut all those who get too close to you. It lies dormant, but its dark roots are strong. You will wither in Hufflepuff as you grow older and cut your ties. Slytherin is the place for you, a place where you can succeed with what is in your heart.”  
“I don’t want to be Slytherin,” whispered Dorian, tears welling up in his eyes the color of forget-me-nots (and certainly no one in his life was destined to forget him).   
“It’s best for you,” the Sorting Hat said, and cried out “SLYTHERIN!”

So Slytherin it was. 

It would be poetic to say he pined away, that the serpent’s venom poisoned him, but it would not be true, and without truth, we are nothing. The truth is, Dorian flourished. He did not have many friends, true, but he found the magical world intoxicating, just like wine (though, poor soul, he would never know its flavor). He excelled at Transfiguration, and Divination (though poor soul, he would never know his future). He charmed others more than he could actually do Charms, and the professor, who everyone knew as Aunt Agatha, took him under her wing. 

In that third year, for like an oroboros we have eaten our own tail and returned to the beginning of this tale, Dorian Gray met Basil Hallward.  
Basil Hallward was a fifth year, a Hufflepuff. He was known for being good at Herbology, and he was teased mercilessly for it. He was known as an artist, and had a few paintings hanging up at the far reaches of the castle where no one really saw them. He spent a lot of time talking to the portraits on the wall, and could tell you more about the dead heads of Hogwarts than anyone else.   
Both Dorian and Basil had meetings with Professor Brandon one day. Dorian’s meeting ran late, and Basil arrived early. They only met each other in passing as one left and the other entered, but Dorian flashed Basil a smile that he would never forget.  
Professor Brandon, worried about Dorian for though he was admired he did not have, as has already been stated, many friends, decided Basil would be at least a partial solution to this problem.  
“Who was that?” asked Basil.  
“Dorian Gray,” said Professor Brandon. “Charming lad. Plays the piano, and is one of the few I’ve seen brave the floating ones near the Great Hall. Not sure what else he does. Nothing, I’m afraid.” She had then told Basil when Dorian’s next performance would be, and started giving him grief about his latest art project, which had resulted in feral flowers escaping their frame and overgrowing half of the north corridor. 

Dorian and Basil hit it off immediately, and became fast friends. Dorian would often sit for Basil in the little-known studio in one of the towers. He was young Merlin, young Solomon, Melampus talking to animals.  
“I would like to paint your portrait properly,” said Basil one day. They had both just finished exams, and were rather elated. “You as you…not as a wizard of yore, but as yourself. Dorian.”  
“I don’t know why you’d want to, but you can if you’d like,” said Dorian, toying with a candy quill.  
They began at once. The process of making a portrait…a proper portrait…was intricate and difficult. The paint had to be mixed with certain herbs and chemicals, and it had to be enchanted both on the palette, and on the canvas. Strands of the subject’s hair, or some other genetic material, had to be incorporated into the paint. There were also caveats about the cycle of the moon, the type of hair on the brush (Basil went with unicorn, which was very costly but absolutely the best for the job), and the shape of the frame the canvas was stretched against.  
It was a slow process, but it quickly became clear that this was to be Basil’s masterpiece. 

Basil and Dorian had started staying out after curfew, sneaking to the studio late at night. They only encountered a professor once, and Dorian had quickly gotten them out of trouble by flashing his famous smile and saying that the moving staircases had gotten him so lost that he wasn’t able to find his common room.  
This all changed one night, when Henry Wotton, notorious sixth year Slytherin prefect, found Basil as he was taking supplies to the studio after hours.   
“Burning the midnight oil, eh Basil?” he said.  
“There’s simply not enough time in the day,” said Basil.  
“Makes you wish for a time-turner,” said Henry. They were old friends, and Basil knew he wasn’t going to get in trouble. “What’s your subject?”   
“A wonderful student…Professor Brandon introduced us, though if she hadn’t I daresay we would have met eventually.”  
They reached the studio, and Henry beelined for Basil’s canvas. He examined the figure there. It was unfinished, and appeared to be sleeping, breathing softly.  
“Basil, this is your finest work! You must have them display it in the Tapestry Corridor…it’s not a tapestry obviously but it’s a better location than the Great Hall.  
Basil squirmed. “I’m not going to display it,” he said.  
“Not display it! Why not?”  
“You’ll laugh at me…I’ve put too much of myself into it.”  
Henry did laugh, his melodious voice hiding the edge to his laughter. “Well then give it to me! I’ll give you anything for it – I’ll make sure Hufflepuff wins the house cup this year if I have to!”  
“It doesn’t belong to you…it belongs to Dorian Gray.”  
“Dorian Gray? Is that who this is?”  
“I didn’t meant to say his name…”  
The two friends were interrupted by the entrance of Dorian himself.  
“Hello,” he said shyly as he saw Henry. He had been introduced to the prefects in a Slytherin group meeting, but he had never actually met one.  
Dorian took up his post on the platform Basil had constructed.  
“Henry, you should go back on patrol, or whatever it was you were doing,” said Basil.  
“No, let him stay!” said Dorian. “You’re ever so boring when you’re painting.”  
Basil hesitated. “I guess I don’t say much when I’m painting, and I listen even less. Okay Henry you can stay, but Dorian, don’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth.”  
Dorian nodded acknowledgement and struck his pose.  
“You really have the spark of magic in you,” said Henry. “And looks that would make a veela blush. You have the power of youth, and that’s just as strong as any forbidden curse. When that fades, what will you have left? No, youth is everything, and you can get anything with youth.”  
“Aren’t you only three years older than me?” said Dorian, puzzled. But he was thinking over the things Henry was saying.  
Henry shook his head as if Dorian was missing the point. “And then that portrait there, the one Basil’s painting so intently, it will remain eternally young. It will live and breath within the world the paintings share, and when people think of Dorian Gray that’s what they’ll remember, not the gray-haired mage.  
“I’m fourteen,” said Dorian.  
“And I’m seventeen and life has already taken its toll on me,” said Henry, and sighed.  
“It’s finished!” said Basil, and gestured them over. Dorian came at a run, and Henry at a more stately pace.  
The portrait was exquisite. It captured every nuance of Dorian’s face, the blush of youth in his cheeks, the scarlet of his lips. It captured the air of magic about him, the electric thrill of his presence.   
As they watched, the portrait woke up. It stretched, yawned deeply, and smiled at them.   
It was Dorian, a Dorian that would never age, never change. It would forever be what Dorian now realized he wanted with a desperate fury to be.  
“Do you like it?” said Basil hesitantly.  
“It has everything I want; I would give anything for the portrait to age and to remain young forever!” cried Dorian.  
“Yes, but do you like it,” said Basil, intent only on getting an answer. If you don’t I’d destroy it but…but that would be murder!”  
“Yes, that’s what I was going to say,” said Dorian. “Of course I like it, Basil.”  
Satisfied, the painter cleaned up.

Things progressed smoothly for a time. The three boys got caught up in their schoolwork. Basil gave the portrait to Dorian, who hung it on his wall. The portrait spent most of its time sleeping – it had just been born, and coming to life was hard work.  
Dorian largely forgot about it – he had a new interest. There had been a school performance (the frog choir) featuring Sybil Vane, a second-year Hufflepuff student. Even with a reptile in her hands she was the most graceful being Dorian had ever seen. She infatuated him as much as any love potion, and in that way childish love has it seemed they had been destined to be together since birth. That Sybil was muggle-born bothered Dorian not at all. He went every day to watch her practice for the next play (William Shakespeare’s ‘Merlin’ in which she played Morgan le Fay – Sybil had been delighted to learn that the play existed, having been aware only of Shakespeare’s ‘muggle plays’). She transported him far away, to Camelot. With her by his side, Dorian knew he could draw Excalibur from its stony prison. Admittedly, he didn’t know why this had to be ‘frog Shakespeare’.  
He also didn’t know that his Mordred already awaited him.

For a few short weeks, Dorian and Sybil became the talk of the castle. Henry fussed over him, mocking him for falling in love, much less falling in love with an actress. Basil thought it was wonderful. He knew Sybil a little bit from the common room. “Charming girl,” he said.  
“Will you come see her perform? Harry’s coming.”  
“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

When the performance came about, Dorian could barely stay in his seat. Sybil walked on stage, a frog in her hands. 

“In lands of old magic was wild and free  
The young King Arthur ruled with gentle fist  
To all his battles Merlin was the key  
Yet even those two nobles sometimes missed”

She droned on and on it seemed to Dorian. The magic had been taken from her words, and those words were worthless without magic. The croaking of her frog seemed more noble, more dramatic. Basil and Henry kept glancing at Dorian with worried faces, and left at the intermission. Dorian stayed, letting the exquisite torture of Sybil’s blunt words cut him. 

He confronted her after the play. She was still holding her frog, and beaming fit to burst. “I was dreadful, wasn’t I?” she said.  
“Absolutely dreadful. It was as if you cast the Cruciatus curse upon me. Why, Sybil? Why?”  
“Because I can no longer act! I cared only for the stage, I threw everything I had into my art, but then you came along and I care for nothing but you! I give my everything to you! We shall be so happy together!”  
Dorian’s blue eyes chilled to ice. “I cannot love you! After what you have put me through today. I cannot love you!”  
Sybil burst into tears. “I will try to act, then! Please! Please! Give me a chance, I will become whomever you wish me to be!”  
“No. It’s too late. Goodbye Sybil.”  
He stormed off.

When he went to bed, he looked at his portrait. Usually it was sleeping, or placidly watching the world go by, but tonight it was wide-awake. It was smiling at Dorian, but Dorian didn’t like its smile. There was something cruel about it. Dorian assumed he was just tired, and went to sleep.

He dreamed he was a 19th century dandy, watching a play. He was all grown up, as were Basil and the now-Lord Henry. The play was called Prince Charming and the Frog Princess. Sybil was the star, but her throat was cut ear to ear and she couldn’t seem to remember her lines. Every time she would try to speak, a frog would drop from her mouth onto the wooden stage floor. Soon the entire theater was swimming with frogs. One of the frogs leapt onto Dorian’s lap and said, in a deep voice, “Your cruelty defines you. You are ivory and rose leaves, but the ivory has been poached and the leaves have thorns.” Then a wave of frogs buried him and

Dorian woke up. His heart was racing, but he slowly settled back to bed. His portrait was watching him, smiling its cruel smile. It beckoned him closer, clearly wanting to whisper something to him. “Sybil…” it said in a raspy voice, unused until now.  
That’s right, Sybil! Dorian had been ghastly to her. He must apologize. Forgetting his portrait, he searched for a quill and some paper. The only quill he could find was one of the candy quills he was so fond of, but it would have to do. As he was writing, Henry burst into the room. “Dorian, I’m so sorry!” he said, and put his hands on Dorian’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself for Sybil.”  
“I acted horribly, but I’m going to put it all right. See, I’ve just finished a letter to her, to see if she’ll take me back.”  
Henry looked quite pale. “Dorian, you haven’t heard?”  
Dorian smiled at him. “Heard what?”  
Henry made him sit down on his bed. “Sybil Vane is dead…she snuck into the gardens and pulled up a mandrake. She died instantly.”  
Dorian looked at his feet. The portrait…had it known? What was it trying to tell him earlier. He glanced up at it, and it made the motion for ‘my lips are sealed’, a nasty glitter in its eyes. Henry didn’t notice. Henry mustn’t notice!  
“Let’s go to the common room, I need a little more air,” said Dorian. “I’ll meet you.”  
Henry nodded and left the room. Dorian, not wanting any of his roommates to see the change in the painting, threw a cloth over it.

Basil snuck into the Slytherin common room. “I should have used a Polyjuice potion, but you know I’m not really one for rule breaking…” said Basil. “But I had to see how you’re doing! Oh Dorian, I’m so sorry.”  
Dorian wasn’t paying attention to him. In a picture of Salazar Slytherin posed Dorian Gray, looking out with cruel eyes. He smiled when he saw the real Dorian watching him. Dorian went white as a sheet. “I know, Dorian, I know. It will be okay,” said Basil, misreading Dorian’s dismay. “She was a dreadful actress but I know you loved her.” He paused. “As long as I’m here, how about you show me my painting? It’s been ever so long since I’ve seen it.”  
“It’s not in its frame right now,” said Dorian. “I don’t know where it’s gone.”  
Basil looked disappointed, but proud. “I’ll keep an eye out for it then.”  
As soon as Basil was gone, Dorian returned to his room. The portrait was back in its frame. “Dorian,” it said (for he was close enough to hear it now) “Remember Sybil Vane. Her blood may not be on your dainty hands, but your sins will not be forgotten. Remember Sybil Vane. Remember Sybil Vane, Remember-”  
Dorian put the cloth back on it, and it fell quiet.  
It dogged him for the next few days, whispering horrible things about himself, about Sybil Vane. No one else seemed to notice it (for no one really paid attention to the speech of paintings).  
He worked hard for these days, and after a full, agonizing week he had the solution.  
“Conncinnabat picture!” he said, casting a new spell he had created with help from Aunt Agatha. The portrait started wildly fighting against its frame, which now confined it. No more could it wander the halls, causing Dorian misery.  
“Silencio!” and the portrait was silent.  
Dorian sat down on his bed, breathing heavily.  
The deal he had made…it had come to pass. His portrait would carry his sins. His portrait, which was locked away and mute. He would remain blameless, pure. He smiled. He could live with that.

Two years later, Henry had graduated, but his influences hung heavy, a whisper here, a whisper there. His words were still burned like fire into Dorian’s brain. Basil was in his final year. Dorian in his fifth. The rumors spread like plague.   
Have you heard about Dorian?   
Have you heard about Dorian Gray?   
I hear him and that Potions-master Ravenclaw, Alan Campbell, I hear…  
Adrien, the gentle Gryffindor, him and Dorian…  
Can’t believe Gwendolyn would lower herself like that…  
Can’t be true, just look at his face.  
Can’t be true, you can see it in his eyes.  
He couldn’t have done that, he just couldn’t have.

Dorian got into all kind of mischief, and as he did his portrait changed. Strangely, it also aged faster than he did, much faster, in line with his depravities.  
This was all well and good as long as it was trapped, silenced, in its frame. Dorian would renew the spells every night, smirking as the portrait glared at him. It gave him pleasure to see the fate he was avoiding (though at times he could not help regretting that he had frozen himself at 14, when he clearly would have been a strapping young man…still, youth was beauty and he did not wish to lose his youth).

This state of affairs could not last forever.  
And it didn’t.  
Because of course, the portrait broke free.  
Much like with poison, an immunity can be developed to magic if the same spells are cast over and over, and over again.  
So when Dorian went for his nightly ritual of containment, the portrait merely laughed, and leapt out of its frame, and disappeared.  
Dorian’s wand fell from his hand, and his eyes were wide. “No,” he whispered. “No!” he said more loudly, and bolted for the door.  
The portrait was waiting for him in the common room, chatting with Salazar Slytherin. “True, true…I hear basilisks are all the rage again this year, though cockatrices are also good,” it was saying, and Salazar was nodding his agreement. “But here comes Dorian Gray!” It sprinted out of the frame.  
It was well after curfew, but Dorian ran out into the hall, searching wild(e)ly. No one must see his portrait! No one must look upon his soul! It was not in the headmaster’s hall, it was not in the Tapestry Corridor.  
“Here,” said his portrait from behind him, in an idyllic forest scene with two centaurs. “Dorian Gray you will face your sins…but there’s one more sin you must commit before I shout it to the high heavens. This was merely a taste…I will return to my frame now, and remain there until the time is right.”  
It walked off.

“Mr. Gray, go back to bed!” cried Aunt Agatha, who had been patrolling the corridors, and led him back to the Slytherin dormitory.   
The portrait was waiting there, sleeping. What do portraits dream about? 

Varnish and frames and open doors, darting eyes tracing brushstrokes in the air, the lives their fleshy doubles lead and led, and shades of death which never will be theirs.

Dorian trembled, but he could do nothing. What was there to do?  
The portrait kept its promise, for a time.

The graduation ceremony had just concluded, and Basil was elated. He was finally going to be able to go out into the world, become a painter on a grand scale.   
There was still one thing left to do before he left Hogwarts. He snuck into the Slytherin common room and sought out Dorian Gray, who had himself just returned from committing some depravity or other.  
“Dorian, I’m going to miss you,” said Basil.  
“You too,” said Dorian halfheartedly.   
“I have to say though…I’m worried about you. I’ve heard so many rumors, and they can’t be true but…” he trailed off. “You look just as you did the day I met you. You can have no malice in your heart. If only I could see your soul.”  
“You can!” said Dorian. “I’ll show it to you.”  
“Don’t be silly,” said Basil.  
“Just follow me,” said Dorian, and started walking towards his bedroom. None of his roommates were in.  
Dorian yanked the cloth off the portrait, which was sitting in its frame, grinning its twisted grin.  
“What kind of joke is this?” said Basil, but he leaned in closer. “This is…this is my signature!”  
Dorian fiddled with his wand.  
“It’s not too late though, Dorian! You can fix this!” He still wasn’t looking at Dorian, who leveled his wand at Basil. He hated him in that moment. Utterly loathed him. Perhaps it was a psychic bond with his portrait. Perhaps not.  
“Behind you,” said the portrait to Basil. Basil whirled around.  
“Avada Kedavra,” said Dorian calmly.  
Basil crumpled.  
It only took a few more waves of his wand to dispose of the body.  
There was blood on the portrait’s hands.

No more came of it at this time, as Dorian was required to go home for the summer break…he could not take the portrait with him, for the figure within vanished before he could pack it up  
He dreaded his return all summer, could think about nothing else, could remember nothing that occurred at hom, but when he got back to school the portrait was dozing in its frame. It was his penultimate year – if he could get through this, and one more, the nightmare would be over, and he could lock the portrait in an attic far away from any art it could worm its way into.  
Naturally no one mentioned Basil, for it was assumed he had just gone home.  
The portrait knew though…the portrait remembered, and would not let him forget. It followed him around the school, whispering his sins. It hid when anyone else would approach, but as soon as they were alone, the portrait tormented him, maddened him, drove him to the brink of tears.  
The gyre widened. The center could not hold.

“Now it’s time for the world to know what you’ve done,” said the portrait one day, just as Dorian thought it could not get any worse. It darted off. Dorian could follow its trail, for it left bloody handprints in the paintings it visited.  
“What kind of monster have you unleashed!” said a portrait of an old headmaster.  
“Disgusting!” said a shepherdess in a pastoral scene, blood staining her sheep.  
“In all my years at Hogwarts…” lamented a nobleman.   
After an intense chase, Dorian caught up to his portrait. “Look upon Dorian Gray!” it cried, and people were starting to pay attention. They stared at the portrait. They stared at Dorian. Their lips curled in cruel smiles. They held Dorian back, blocked his path. The portrait cavorted onwards, though to where?  
Dorian, crying so hard he couldn’t breathe, pressed onwards. In some of his nightmares, he saw Sybil Vane. In some, he saw Basil. But in most, his portrait laughed at him, mocked him, destroyed him.  
There were voices all around him.  
I always knew it was true.  
Oh God, poor Alan. Poor Gwendolyn.  
Disgusting creature. Should be expelled.  
Should be shot! That’s the muggle terminology, right?  
He’ll never live this down.  
How horrid!

He finally cornered it in a painting of King Arthur’s court. It leered at him, shouting his sins to the gathered crowd.  
He could not bear it.  
It had to be destroyed.  
Dorian leveled his wand at the portrait. “Avada Kedavra!” he cried.  
There was a flash of light, and Dorian fell to the floor…but he was not Dorian as he had been, but Dorian as his true soul showed. If it were not for the numerous witnesses, no one would have believed it.

From this point on, there was a new fixture in the paintings around the castle. A crying youth of extraordinary beauty, who seemed lost and confused. “I shouldn’t be in here,” he would say. “Please…I shouldn’t be in here! Basil, help me! Help me…”  
No one ever did.


End file.
